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Monday, July 30, 2012

I've read the first two books: "Fifty Shades of Grey"
and "Fifty Shades Darker." It's ok.

I think this book glamorizes
sexual deviancy the way Pretty Women glamorized prostitution. Remember when
Julia Roberts played a prostitute and Richard Geer played the rich John. They
fell in love and then every girl in her 20s wanted to be a prostitute because
of the glamorous lifestyle. We all know how glamorous prostitutes have it.

It's the same old story.... poor unknowing virgin meets
insanely rich man. She manages to do what no other woman before her could...
fix him and make him happy! Bla! Why is it never the other way around? Why is
it never the poor unknowing virgin meets the rich beautiful woman. Why is it
women never get to be on top?

It's a good read if you're in your 20s or 30s. If
you're in your 40s or 50s, you'll just want to bitch-slap the lead character
Anastasia Steele and say "Smarten up!"

It got me to thinking. I am a writer! I could write a book
like this for women in their 40s on up! Soft porn for women going through the
change! I am 48. I know what turns on a woman going through mid-life. So I sat
at my computer and begin and began my erotic, amusing and deeply moving
"Fifty Ways a Day" a tale that will obsess you, possess you, and stay
with you forever.

Chapters 1- 9

These chapters suck because you're just getting to know the
characters. Skip to Chapter 10 where the good stuff happens.

Chapter 10

Christian Ways, the Adonis stands in my kitchen. His tool
belt hanging off his hips, the way I like it. I am the richest women in the
province and this poor carpenter has responded to my ad in the newspaper for a "Handyman." It's his first job.
I warn him, there's a contract he'll have to sign.

He says he is into vanilla carpentry. No add-ons, no toys.
My dog walks into the kitchen. "Who's that?" he questions.
"That's Charlie Tango, my dog. Get used to him." He seems impressed.

"What do you want me to do for you?" he asks
shyly. I stare down at my knotted fingers. "There's a hole in my wall. Do
you know how to fill it" I question him. "I have Fifty Ways of fixing
everything." I gasp at his assertiveness.

His gaze is unwavering and intense. His tousled hair falls
on his face, his voice is like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel. The kind
you can only get in those Cadbury eggs at Easter.

"You should steer clear of me. I am not the handyman
for you" he warns. "Fix my wall" I order him. He's home
improvement on legs I think to myself.

He moves gracefully through the kitchen. His muscular arm
reaches to the top of the wall and he slides his hand down feeling the texture.
He examines the hole. "I can fix this hole now." Without warning he
whips out a trowel from his tool belt. It sends shivers down my spine. Where
did the plaster come from? I don't know. Within seconds the hole is filled and
the smell of plaster and sweat is intoxicating. "What now?" he
greedily asks me.

"There's a hissing in my toilet. It's been there for
weeks.""Show me to the
bathroom" he says and I oblige immediately.

Before I know it, he's on his
knees... listening to the hiss. "I know how to stop your hiss" he tells
me. I stand beside him, relishing his knowledge. Maybe he is too good for me.
I've had three plumbers look at this toilet. Neither could find my hiss. His
fingers carefully lift off the top of my toilet and sensually lays it on the
closed seat. He plunges his hand into the cold toilet water. "It's
wet" he says. "I know. The water in there always is" I warn him.

Fifty Ways knows his stuff. He whips out the hose. "Your
hose is broken." He slowly pulls his knife out of the tool belt. It's
still hanging on his hips. The way I like it. He cuts the hose and places it
back in the cold wet water. "Your hissing is gone now. I've cut out the
broken part" he explains. "You don't need a long hose to get the job
done. Sometimes a shorter hose can do that job too."

He was just Fifty Ways of craziness. He bent over to pick up
the toilet seat and his Levis were as tight as the fitted sheet on my mother's
bed.

"What's next?"

He's brazen. My head is swimming. I
didn't expect it to be like this. Getting all this work done today. I quiver and gasp.

"My hardwood floors aren't level" I groan. "Show
me" he commands.

I take him to the living room. He gets down on all fours.
In an earth-shattering moment he pulls out his level. Oh my God. I had no idea
my floors were that bad! It tears at my soul. I stare down at my knotted
fingers then at Fifty. His grey eyes turn cold. He pulls something out of his
pocket and I hear the tearing of foil. I can't believe it! He has his own steel
wool!

"I can't fix this. I am not the handyman for you"
he cries out.

He doesn't smile. He just turns on his heels and stalks to
the front door. "Good-bye" he softly says and he looks utterly,
utterly broken. A man in agonizing pain. I tear my gaze from him. The physical
pain of losing him overtakes me and I surrender myself to my grief. A good
handyman is so hard to find I cry out.

The end.

Stay tuned for book two. While the handyman wrestles with
not being able to fix the floor, the richest woman in the province must
confront the anger and envy of all the other women in the neighbourhood who
want him to fix their holes.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

The whole point of my blog is to let women
know we all go through the same frustrations with life, just on different days.
Women really need to learn how to support each other especially when it comes to
being real. Life can't just be about expensive purses and achieving our target
weight. I felt somebody had to say "Wait! I like granny panties, my life
is not perfect and I love my husband and kids but they drive me nuts sometimes
and I know I am not the only one!"

This week I have a guest blogger. Her name
is Heather Von St. James and her story is amazing. Please read her blog and
visit her blog site. Her story will touch you.

It is one of the most
eventful times in a woman’s life when expecting a child. The pregnancy was very
normal with each movement and kick of my little bundle of joy. Lily, my little
daughter was born on August 4, 2005 and I was so excited as I counted her ten
tiny fingers and toes. Throughout everything in my life, those who meant the
world to me, my "village,” surrounded me. There was so much to look
forward to as we all witness each new chapter in this life – it all seemed
perfect.

I returned to work when
Lily was a month old. I was not feeling up to snuff yet, but blew it off as
post-partum exhaustion. I had no energy, felt fatigued and breathless.
Something was clearly wrong, so I went to my doctor. After various tests,
diagnosis revealed my condition was much worse than stress.

The news was devastating.
Here I am with a three-and-a-half month old baby girl, a joyous time in my
life, and I was slapped with the reality that I had malignant pleural
mesothelioma-- cancer. That is a word no one wants to hear, but as it turns
out, I came into contact with asbestos when I was just a child 30 years ago.
This cancer was caused by exposure to asbestos.

My doctor gave me 15 months
to live with this disease unless I began immediate treatment. What was I to do?
I had a family to think about. This was supposed to be a new chapter in our
lives. I couldn't imagine my happy family, my "village,” going on without
me. With the severity and grimprognosis of mesothelioma, we knew we had to get the best treatment
possible.

My folks offered to care
for Lily in South Dakota, where I grew up, so that I could seek help. One of
the best mesothelioma doctors was in the Boston area so my husband and I went
to seek him out. I underwent anextrapleural pneumonectomy, which is a removal of the affected lung.
Recovery in the hospital was 18 days followed by an additional two months
before moving on to the next steps involving radiation and chemotherapy.

All throughout my treatment
and recovery, my village grew. While we were in Boston, we met other families
who were going through the same thing we were. They leaned on us and we leaned
on them throughout the whole process. Back in South Dakota, my parents gained
their own little village that helped with raising Lily. Girls who I had babysat
once were now adults and offered to watch Lily while my parents worked. Their
support meant more to me than I could ever say.

It was my “village” of
family and friends who gave me the strength to keep going. I knew I needed to
fight this cancer and be here for those I loved. Never take life or anything in
your life for granted. Your “village” is a precious thing.

Heather Von St James is a
43-year-old wife and mother. Upon her diagnosis of mesothelioma, she vowed to
be a source of hope for other patients who found themselves with the same
diagnosis. Now, over 6 years later, her story has been helping people all over
the globe. She continues her advocacy and awareness work by blogging, speaking
and sharing her message of hope and healing with others. Check out her story at
theMesothelioma
Cancer Alliance Blog.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
So mothers, be good to your daughters too (John Mayer)

Dr. Phil, my TV BFF, says, "The most important person
in a child's life is their same-sex parent." Whether you like him or hate
him, you have to agree that's true.

Mothers, or their female guardian, greatly influence their
daughters.

I became very aware of this when my daughter was a toddler.
She loved to sit and watch me put on my make-up. She would study every move I
made and every object I touched.When I
got up from my make-up dresser, she would sit down and put on her make-up,
copying me move for move.

She loves going into my closet and taking out the highest
pair of heels she can find. Then she wears them around the house. Wobbling
from room to room like she was walking on stilts. She would take down some glitzy
dress I wore to party, put it on and stand in front of the mirror. Sucking in
her cheeks, shifting from hip to hip, practicing her super model poses.

Practicing to be... me!

I am very conscious when I am getting dressed that she's
watching everything from the length of my skirt to how much cleavage I am
showing. She makes a mental note of it.

She's 12 now, going to junior high and has become very
self-conscious of how she looks. At 12 girls are trying to fit in. I would
never want to be 12 again.

All her friends dress alike. If one gets a pair of red
shoes, then everyone in the group has to have them too. When I tell her "I
think those shorts are too short." She'll respond with, "What about
those shorts you wore in Florida. They were short."

Once again pulling out
her mental notebook and reminding me that she's watching everything I do. I try
to explain that when a woman is in another country, where no one knows her, she
is allowed to wear short shorts and a bikini as long as she stays out of the
focus of a camera lens.

When she was about five, I started having "Girls
Night" when my husband took our son to cadets. As soon as they left we
would begin our beauty treatments. I buy those $1.00 facial kits at Lawton's. I
don't really care if they "Deep clean" or if they're
"Anti-aging." I go for the cool colours like purple or red or the
flavoured ones like chocolate or strawberry.

During our girls night we put our facials on, slice up some
cucumber for our eyes and lay on my bed talking about what's going on in
her life. While waiting for our facials to work she has no trouble spilling all
the secrets of her life. Who she likes. Who she doesn't. What she should do
about it.

Then I give her a manicure and pedicure. Telling her every
step of the way how pretty she is. We have a rule during our girls night. Every
hour we have to look in the mirror and say one thing we like about ourselves.
Like "I like my hair" or "I am good at math."

Our girls nights are not always spa nights. Sometimes we go
to a restaurant and talk or play a game. The whole purpose of our "Girls
night" is to create an open line of communication with her, build her
self-esteem and remind her about how special she is, not only to me, but to the
world.

As she gets older she wants to spend more time with her
friends and less time with me. It's natural for that to happen , I keep telling
myself.

She fits into my high-heels now perfectly. We're the same
size but she still wobbles. I am sure in no time she'll have the art of walking
in three inch heels perfected.

My Mother always warned me, "You don't own your
children. You only have a loan of them. Eventually they grow up and leave
you." That day seems to be coming toward me like a freight train. I can't
even think about the day she starts packing up her stuff to move. I can't
imagine when our "Girls night" stops.

She still won't go to sleep until I kiss her good night and
when she sleeps, she looks like a toddler. Letting go is not going to be easy
for me.

As a mother, it's our job to teach our kids how to be
independent. Fly the nest. Survive on their own. Leave us. It seems like we
spend the first few years of their lives wishing they would grow up and go
away. Then as the day gets closer we wonder where the time went.

I have a few years of "Girls nights" left. She's
only 12. She still has some growing to do. But I realize she will always see
herself in me. The career she picks, how she lets a man treat her, the way she
dresses, will all be influenced by me.

That's why I've never been a "Do as I say, not what I
do" kind of mom. I try to be the woman that I would like her to grow up to
be.I pray she even does better than
that.

I see my daughter as an extension of myself. The person who
I'd like to be. The friend I can't wait to have. The overwhelming pride in my
heart.

When she was about four, she gave me a Valentine's Day card.
(I know my husband picked it out for her). I've kept the card tucked into the
mirror on my make-up dresser to remind me that I am being watched, even when
she's not in the room. The poem on the front says:

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

As the old saying goes, "The hand that rocks the cradle
is the hand that rules the world."

Not that we're better parents than men, we just parent
differently than men do.

Men on the other hand will live a lot longer than us because
they don't stress about the little things like we do.

Men know how to relax.

I am standing at the kitchen counter making lunches for the
next day, making sure everything is in the backpack for camp and hubby is
sitting in the TV room in the recliner flipping between golf and race car
driving.

He yells out, "Do you need any help?"

"Yes" I
yell back.

"What do you
want me to do?" Ok so now I have to make a list... it's easier to just do
it myself.

"Empty the garbage in the kitchen", I tell him.

"Ok" then I wait five minutes. No sign of
movement. I poke my head into the TV room "Are you going to empty the
garbage?"

"Yes, right after this ends" and that's how you
press my anger/frustration button. Women need it done now! Men need it done
"Right after this ends."

We adjusted our work shifts when the kids were younger to
accommodate their school day. I worked from 7 AM - 3 PM so I could be there
when my son got home from school, to get homework done before my two year old
daughter came home to interrupt, and to make supper.

Hubby worked from 9 AM - 5 PM so he could get the kids up,
fed, washed and to day care and school on time and he picked our daughter up at
day care on the way home.

He handled the kids better in the morning and could get them
out without fighting and I could handle them better in the afternoon because I
didn't lose my temper over homework. It worked out great and alleviated all the
fighting about homework with a tired child and ensured we ate home cooked meals
instead of fast food.

I was more than impressed with my husband's efforts
especially when it came to doing our daughter's hair.

At two, her head was a mass of long curly locks that took
forever to comb out and was the cause of many a tantrum. If she saw me even
walk past with a brush she would run from the room screaming. Somehow he was
able to tame herwild locks and get her
to sit still for pig tails, pony tails, even a French braid. I was more than
impressed, I was jealous! I couldn't do a French braid!

One week hubby had to go out of town on business and I did
both the morning and the afternoon shift. I dreaded the thought of mornings. My
daughter was not a morning person and I knew we were going to fight about those
curls. Just as I had predicted she saw me coming with the brush and the place
went up. An hour later I dragged her into day care. She was still sniffling
from the morning cry and I looked like Alice Cooper with my mascara dripping
down my face. I took her coat off and brought her into the play room.

Sheila, her teacher greeted us. She put her hand out and
asked "Where's the bag?" "Oh Jeez," I thought "I
forgot something." "I am so frazzled today. What did I forget?"
I asked. "Her hair clips" Sheila says.

"What clips?" I asked. Then she filled me in on
hubby's dirty little secret, "Your husband can't do her hair so he brings
me a bag of clips and elastics every morning and I do her hair."

When hubby got home a few days later I asked him, "Show
me how to do a French braid? I really want to learn." "No" he
says, "I don't want to go at her hair now. She gets upset."
"Really," I pressed "Then do it to my hair." "It
wouldn't look good on you," he says.

"You're busted buddy! Sheila told me this morning that
she does her hair!" The jig was up.

I wasn't mad, I was still impressed. Rather than start each
day out with a fight, he found a way that let both of them have a good day. Men
know how to delegate. Women try to do it all. I wanted to pin her to the floor
and staple bows on her head. He found a
better, stress-free way.

I stress when school projects are not completed on time. I
feel guilty throwing food out when it has gone bad. I kick myself for wasting
that money. I freak if a white T-shirt gets mixed up with the jeans in the
wash. I blow a fuse if kids throw their coats on the floor in the hall. I lay
in bed thinking of all the things I did wrong that day and all the things I
have to do tomorrow. I am definitely going to die from a stress related disease.

Hubby has a completely different approach. "Let them
get an 'F' and see how that feels" he says about school projects that
haven't been completed. "I am throwing this junk out of the fridge, it
looks gross" he says about the unused food. "Cool. I got a gray
T-shirt" he says. "I just walked on somebody's coat with my muddy
boots" he shouts from the hall. Then he hits the pillow and within five
seconds he is snoring. No stress.

I think both moms and dads bring important skills to
parenting. They keep an even balance. I can't imagine what it is like to be a
single parent. My heart really goes out to those poor souls doing it on their
own.I often wonder "When do they
sleep?"

The best part about having a partner in parenting is having
someone to blame everything on!

But at the end of the day, when kids have a fever at 3 AM
and throws up all over the bed, they scream out "Mom!!!" not dad.

Monday, July 16, 2012

We stopped at the Irving in Goobies on the Trans Canada
Highway for lunch. We were driving to Gander with our three year son.

Hubby went to the restaurant side to get us a table and I
took our son to the Ladies room with me to pee. The bathroom was full of people. We huddled into the small stall and I let him go first. He was getting
the hang of standing up to pee. To keep his aim on target I always kept Cheerios
in a baggy in my purse. I would throw a few in the toilet and tell him to sink
the Cheerios. He was very proud of his perfect aim.

After I pulled his pants up I said "You stand there now
and be good. Mom has to pee too."

"Do you want me to throw the Cheerios in Mom?"

"No. Mom don't need Cheerios" I told him.

"'Cause you got good aim right?"

I could hear the ladies outside the stall giggle at him.

I squat down to pee and a look of shock and horror came over
his little three year old face. "Where's your penis Mom?" He asked
with all sincerity. The ladies outside the stall were in a full roar by now.

"Shush!" I told him "Be quiet the ladies can
hear you!"

"Your penis is gone! How are you peeing?" He bent
down trying to look for my penis. The ladies outside could barely get their
breath by now and I was trying to rush my pee and pull my pants up without having
to explain the birds and the bees in an Irving bathroom stall.

I opened the stall. The ladies were waiting to see the innocent
face of my three year old. "Does Dad know you don't have a penis?"
His questions persisted even at the sink as I washed his hands. "Yes he
knows. Girls don't have penises. Be quiet" I tried to rush him out of the
room.

I could hear the laughter hit the ceiling as I exited the
washroom.

While I was adjusting my clothes on the way out he got out
of my grip and started running through the Irving restaurant. He spotted his
father sitting in the furthest table away from us. As soon as his little feet
hit the floor he yelled out in his loudest voice, "Dad, Dad, Dad!!! Mom
lost her penis! She doesn't have a penis!"

The whole restaurant erupted into laughter while turning to
see this blue eyed toddler running towards his father. My husband froze not
sure what he was hearing and by the time it registered with him, it was too
late. He was at the table and jumping up in a chair.

Our son looked his father right in the eye and said,
"Mom don't have a penis! She had to pee sitting down!" Unable to
hold back his laugh, hubby informs him, "Girls don't have penises. God
didn't give them any. That's ok. Now lower your voice."

My three year old then spots me walking towards the table
aware that every eye in the place is looking at me. He yells out, 'Mom! That's
ok. You didn't lose your penis. God didn't give you one." The whole place broke out into a loud laughter.

Red faced, I sat at the table. A waitress arrived the same
time with a big bowl of chocolate ice cream.She sat it down in front of him.

'We didn't order this" I told her.

"I know"
she says, "But this little guy made me laugh today like I haven't laughed
in years. He deserves a big bowl of chocolate ice cream."

"You're the prettiest waitress I've ever seen," he
says with a big chocolate smile. She thanked him and we received service equal
to any five star restaurant.

As they left, every patron in the place came by to say hello to
the little boy who made them laugh and the Mom who didn't have a penis.

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

I've spent the last year trying to decide if I am going to
buy myself an Iphone. My kids got them for Christmas last year.I have a Blackberry for work.

The kids are always showing me the latest Apps and how cool
they are. They constantly make fun of me for carrying a Blackberry and an IPod
with my music on it, plus a paper day-timer.

So, to become the cool Mom and to fit in with the cool kids,
I finally gave in and bought myself the Iphone 4 S. I have to admit, I love it.
I particularly love Siri, the voice App that talks back to you.

You can ask Siri anything and she will answer you.

My daughter asked "Where's the best place to hide a
dead body?" and Siri gave her four locations I never would of thought of.
I asked Siri "Who's the fairest of them all?" and she answered with
"Snow White, is that you?" I say "I love you Siri" and she
says "Oh, I bet you say that to all your Apple products." I asked her
"What's the weather like today?" and she gives me the week forecast.
Siri is quickly becoming my new BIFF (Best Iphone Forever Friend.)

Yesterday, after five days with my new IPhone 4 S, I went to
the bathroom and the phone fell out of my pocket straight into the toilet.

Without a thought about who used it last I reached in and
grabbed it. Tried to shake the water off it, then wrapped it in a towel and
dried it. I knew water had gotten inside the phone. I hit the home button and
it opened showing my screen saver, Tom Selleck in his Bluebloods police uniform
from the waist up. I didn't know how to get the water out of it so I did
whatanyone would do when your best
friend almost drowns, I performed mouth-to-mouth
resuscitation. I put my mouth around the slot at the
bottom of the phone where your plug in the charger, looked Tom straight in the
eye and blew the water out of my phone. She lived and Tom now has a big smile
on his face.

After I knew she was functioning properly it struck me that
I should immediately brush my teeth and gargle with Listerine mouthwash.

The funny thing is, that's not the first time it happened. I
should work in a cell phone testing lab.

A while ago, I was in the bathroom at work. I was washing my
hands in the sink which is about four feet away from the toilet. I dabbed my
hands dry with the paper towel and picked up my Blackberry. It slipped from my
hands like a frog and jumped straight into the toilet! I had to reach in and
grab it out (I did not perform mouth-to-moth on the Blackberry as we are just co-workers) and dried it with paper
towels. I ran back to my office, put it on top of the electric heater and
turned the heat on bust. For the rest of the morning I looked like I was going
through the change of life because the sweat was dripping down my face but my
Blackberry did come back to life except I couldn't use the "0"
button.

Last summer, I was skimming rocks at the beach with my kids
when I noticed a Blackberry washed up on shore near my feet. I picked it up
thinking "Some loser's phone is dead." I hit the "on"
button to see if it worked and it lit up showing my name on the screen. I shot
a frantic look to the case on my hip and it was empty. My Blackberry fell out!
I ran to the car and put it on the heater and blasted it with dry air until it
came back to life. It did work for about a week and then the key board died.

What I found out after that incident was when cell phones
get wet there is a very small pin-hole on them that turns red so dealers know
you dropped them in the water. So don't try to lie about it. They will catch
you. Just saying.

One afternoon I pulled out of my parking space at work, just
as I was about to pull away I noticed a Blackberry on the pavement.
"Someone lost their phone and I just ran over it" I thought. I got
out and picked it up. It was mine and it didn't break.

My daughter informs me they sell rubber waterproof cases at
The Future Shop for Iphone. So Siri and I will be heading out shortly to get a
rubber to protect her and Tom.

What cell phone companies should invent is a carrying case
that looks like those old black leather wallets that dudes carry in their back
pocket. The ones that have a silver chain hooking it to their pants. That's
what I need.

I asked Siri if she was ok after her near-death experience
and she said, "I can't answer that. Will I Google it for you?" I am
not sure if she is being honest or if she's just pissed with me for dropping
her in the toilet.

Everything seems to be working fine on it. I just said
"Good-night Siri" and she answered with "Good-night Helen."
Daughter yells from her room, "Saying good-night to your phone! Really
Mom. That's so un-cool!"

So I am no longer hanging with the cool kids. But I do love
my new IPhone.

Sunday, July 8, 2012

When you sail through St. John's Narrows, the first thing
you see is the beautiful, historic St. John the Baptist Basilica surrounded
by colourful row houses.

Then you spot this monstrosity to the left of it (depending which
way you're looking). It's The Rooms.

One time I was on a tour boat in the harbour enjoying the
accordion music and a day on the sea with a bunch of tourists. Someone pointed
out the Basilica. She recognized it from a painting she saw in a gallery earlier.
"What's that big building to the left of it?" she asked. Quick as a
wink the captain said, "That's the box the Basilica came in." Now
that's what I think of when I see The Rooms.

I've only been in The Rooms a handful of times. Each time I
was disappointed. It's a beautiful building, don't get me wrong. It's just not
what I thought it was going to be.

When the Rooms was first proposed, I thought it was a
fabulous idea to have a new building dedicated to our history and culture. The
old museum on Duckworth Street had the same stuff in it since I was in
kindergarten. It would be nice to have a modern facility.

A few years ago, I decided to "Vacation at Home"
as the advertisements tell us to do. I felt my kids were developing a love for
the mainland and mostly the United States due to our vacations there. They were
starting to see the world and they loved it. All winter they couldn't wait to
leave this Island for one that had hot weather, sandy beaches and roller
coasters.

I felt it was my duty to make sure they had a love of
Newfoundland and Labrador culture and history too. So I brought them to The
Rooms.It was very disappointing with
very little about our culture or heritage. I know art is in the eye of the beholder,
but there was a stack of books up to the ceiling and art work from New York. It
wasn't my taste.

I asked people who worked there, "I want to teach my
kids about Newfoundland culture and history. Where's that section." There
was very little there to see. The Archives were there if you wanted to read all
day. Another mother standing close by told me to go to the Geo Center. That was
the best place to find out about our province and she was right.

The Geo Center had a great video hosted by Gordon Pinsent
that the kids and I enjoyed very much. The Titanic exhibition was excellent and
the kids loved walking through it. The place was exciting and kid friendly.
When I first walked in to The Rooms the first thing I thought about was
"Do they even allow kids in here?"It doesn't seem like a kid friendly building when you're in the lobby.

When I think about The Rooms, I envisioned our vast culture
and heritage on display not only for tourists but for our own children to be
able to see it, touch it and hear it.

Recently myself and some friends went to see
"Nunsense" a Spirit of Newfoundland production. We don't miss any
shows put off by this extremely talented crowd. Each time we go, we are astounded by the quality
of the talent. From Sheila Williams' brilliant comedic timing that puts you in mind
of Lucille Ball, to Shelley Neville's beautiful opera voice. Any of these
performers could easily hold their own against the best from Broadway.

How can
such a small island produce so much talent? There must be something in the salt
meat!

I think of the music from Great Big Sea to The Wonderful
Grand Band. How many kids in this province know the WGB's Living in a Fog CD
has been selling strong since 1981?

This is where The Rooms comes in. If I were in charge of
this building here's what I would do...

Create "Rooms" for the following...

The Musical History
of Newfoundland and Labrador Room: This area will feature an accordion
owned by Harry Hibbs, awards won by Great Big Seat, the fiddle of Emile Benoit,
a mannequin dressed in a Joan Morrissey dress, the original hand written lyrics
to "Sonny's Dream" by Ron Hynes and that's just off the top of my
head. Each display will have a button you press and it plays the music and tells you the history of each
artist. This room wouldn't be long filling up with historical items. Some of
the artists featured in the room will be invited in to talk to children about
how important our musical history is and encourage them to listen and love it. Imagine
Alan Doyle talking to a junior high show choir about performing on stage!

The Broadcasting
history of Newfoundland and Labrador: This room will feature a display on
Geoff Stirling and how he and Don Jamison brought television to this province.
It will have a section on the "Art Andrew's Dance Party." A Marconi
display (don't forget broadcasting started in NL). A room for The Wonderful
Grand Band's CBC show featuring Marg at the Mental's costumes, Nanny Hynes'
bandana and other memorable items. Don't forget the entire CBC network today is
held together by artists and shows from Newfoundland and Labrador: The Republic
of Doyle, This Hour has 22 Minutes and the Rick Mercer Report. There will be a
theatre featuring all of these new shows as well as the old. How many young
adults in this province have seen The Rowdy Man? I recently sat with
Ron Pumphrey and his lovely wife Marilynn at a dinner. Age hasn't dulled his
ability to tell you fantastic story after story about our history. How many kids know who
he is? His stories need a place to live.

The Sports history of
Newfoundland and Labrador: The crowning glory to this room will be the
Olympic Gold Medals won by Team Gushue. Next to it will be the Stanley Cup Ring
won by Daniel Cleary. Displays will feature personal items and the story of
many Newfoundlanders and Labradorians who have gone on to become world athletes.
Can you imagine a class of grade four students sitting in this room listening
to Brad Gushue tell his Olympic story? Talk about leaving an impression on a
kid!

The Political history
of Newfoundland and Labrador: No other province has our colourful political
history! This room will feature a bust of each elected premier and their
history. Other personal items will be on display like Joey Smallwood's suit and
glasses. Each past premier will be asked to donate something of historical importance
to be featured in their display. I imagine a class of high school students
sitting in this room talking one on one with Danny Williams about Muskrat
Falls. Wouldn't that light a fire under our future leaders?

Now that's just off the top of my head. I know each of you
can add to these displays and add more rooms. Can you imagine taking your kids
to this building?

Parents shouldn't have to wonder if this is a "Kid
friendly" building. Kids should be ignited when they come through the
doors.

This is where our children will see our past and become part
of our future. This facility will inspire our future leaders, broadcasters and
sports stars.

The Rooms should be known for being more than the box the
Basilica came in. The Rooms should have room for us!

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

I have spent many a night rocking a sick child with fevers
so high their little heads would leave scorch marks on my cheek. I can't tell
you how many times I had spit-up down my back or puke over my front... and it
doesn't bother me in the least.

If my kids are sick, I am there. Wiping the puke, changing
the sheets, measuring the Advil, never once losing my temper. It doesn't bother
me one bit.

But as soon as my husband says he has a cold I want to put
the pillow over his face.

I don't know why this happens to me! I am not a violent
person, but as soon as he sneezes I want to punch him in the head. Maybe it's
because he wakes me up to tell me he's sick ten times a night. Maybe it's
because he flops around the bed moaning and groaning like he's dying of a near
fatal disease. Or maybe it's because he follows me around the house telling me
how sick he is and leaving his snotty tissues on the coffee table for me to
pick up.

Why do men think they married their mothers?

My husband followed me around the house with a pair of pants
hanging over his arm telling me he needed a button sewn on. I was making
lunches for the next day, trying to negotiate a truce with pre-teen daughter on
what she was going to wear to school, while pushing teenaged son to get in the
shower, feed the dog and check homework. "Do I look like your mother? Do I
look like I own a sewing basket?" If pants need a button, throw them out
and buy a new pair!

Then he plays the hide and seek game with me. "Where's
my tie clip?" How the hell do I know? When was the last time I wore his
tie clip? "You're always hiding stuff on me!" he says. "If you'd
only put stuff back where it belongs! It's not hiding, it's cleaning up!"
Like I have time to hide his tie clip.

I did hide the tie clip that time just to mess with his
mind.

"I don't remember you graduating from the School for
the Deaf?" I tell him all the time. No matter what I say he'll say
"What?" I know he hears me because If I don't answer he'll repeat
what I said and answer me. This man can stand on our back patio, watch a golf
game on our TV through the living room window (Yes he has it set up perfectly)
and read the lips of the players but he can't hear me talking to him when I am
standing right in front of him.

I know why women outlive men. Because men can't live on
their own. If I died first, my husband would sit in his lounge chair watching
golf forever. He wouldn't know where his underwear or tie clip were because I'd
take them in the casket with me just to piss him off! He'd never know what's
for supper, or where the children were. They'd find him years from now, a
skeleton in a lounge chair covered in cobwebs with a remote in his hand.

I know it's flu season. My kids are passing it back and
forth. It's like they lick each other to spread the germs. When kids are sick,
they want Mom. No one wants to puke over Dad. He stands in the hall asking
"Do you need any help?" That's ok. I can handle it.

But when I am holding a kid's head over the toilet and a
cold facecloth to their head, the last thing I want to hear is "I feel so
sick. I am going back to bed."

When I am sitting in that chair, rocking a sick child back
to sleep and I hear snoring coming from the master bedroom, that's when I want
to sneak in and just so lightly push the pillow over his head.

Monday, July 2, 2012

If I had five more minutes I could accomplish so much! I
certainly wouldn't be doing some of the stupid things I've been doing lately.

Over Christmas I left my ATM card in the machine at Sobey's
and didn't realize it till the next day when I went to pay for lunch at a
restaurant. Luckily I had a credit card in my wallet or I would have been
washing dishes. I had to go to the bank to get a new one.

You would think I learned a lesson, but I did the exact same
thing a day later! Paying for groceries at Sobey's I went off and left that
damn card in the machine again. Then had to go back to the bank and admit that
I needed another card.

Why am I in this constant state of confusion?

It's because I am so busy all the time. My whole life just
needs five more minutes!

Rushing the kids out to the school bus, waiting for the
dryer to end so I can get another load in before I go to work, drying my hair.
If I just had five more minutes!!!

Muti-tasking is just a joke!

I am writing at report a work, Googling a recipe for chicken
for supper, while writing "Don't forget to write a cheque for daughter's
dance class" on a post-it note and attaching it to my purse, fixing the
scuff on my high-heels with a black marker while my mother phones to complain
that I never call her anymore!

During a multi-tasking melt down one morning, I was
retrieving a message my boss left on my office phone, jotting down the information
I needed to call him back with,while
reading an email from my husband. I called my boss's office number and got his
voice mail, while leaving him the information he needed, and answering the
email back to my husband, I ended the message to my boss with "I hope
that's all you needed. If not call me back. I love you. Bye" and hung up
the phone.

I do not love my boss. He's ok. I like him but it's not
love.

I realized what I did and ran like a woman on fire through
the building to his office. He wasn't in yet, thank God, but his executive
assistant was. I asked her if she had the code to his voice mail and told her
what I did. She went in to retrieve the message but it wasn't there."Maybe I didn't press the number to
leave a message" I thought. Her phone rang and she picked it up. It was
the boss. After a few pleasantries and the daily update she tells him "I
am here with Helen now"jots down
some info and hangs up the phone. "What did he say?" I asked holding
my breath. "He said to tell you he got your message and he's very fond of
you too."

As women we over tax ourselves. Trying to be superwomen in stilettos.
How many times has superwoman shown up at work with her skirt on backwards or
two different black shoes on? My husband calls me every day to remind me to
pick the kids up. I always say, "Do you really think I would forget?"
Truth is, I always forget. Thank God he knows me better than that.

And watch out if I am PMSing on top of multi-tasking! Hubby
made the mistake of yelling at me from the basement asking me where his white
shirt was while I trying to get a five minute nap on the couch after supper.
Twice I yelled back that it was hanging in his closet. I know he can hear me
but he pretends he is deaf! So I jumped off the couch and stomped to the
basement door and screamed back, "You're not f...ing deaf. While you're
down there take the clothes out of the dryer and they better be folded before
you come up stairs or I'll cripple you!" I slammed the door and stomped
back to my five minute nap on the couch grinding my teeth.

What I didn't know was that my husband was upstairs, not
down in the basement.

The guy from Irving was in the basement fixing the furnace.

Hubby had let him in while I was upstairs helping the kids
with homework 20 minutes earlier.

I didn't know the Irving guy was in the house until I heard
a light tap on the living room door. I opened one eye to see the poor man
standing there in his Irving coveralls holding a folded basked of laundry. He
said "Missus, the furnace is fixed. You shouldn't have any problems now
and the laundry is folded. I am not good at matching socks so you may want to
check them." He laid the basket on the floor and slowly backed out of the
room, then ran for his life.

I just needed five more minutes of sleep before starting the
second half of my day, now the Irving guy thinks I am a maniac.

I think my brain is full and I can't fit anything else in
there. Every time I fill out a form for my kids I haveto think, what year was my son born? I know
we were married in '94, he was born two years later. It must be '96. No one
will know if it's wrong anyway. Don't even get me started on people's names.
There are times I feel like lying to people and saying "I had a stroke and
lost my memory so you'll have to remind me how I know you."

If I had five more minutes to think about it, I am pretty
sure it still wouldn't come to me.

If I just had five more minutes my hair would be perfect,
the zipper on my skirt would be in the back where it's suppose to be, the washer
and dryer would have a full load in them, the pot roast would be in the slow
cooker, the kids would have their lunch in their backpacks and on time for the
school bus, my boss wouldn't think I had a crush on him and Irving wouldn't
refuse to service my furnace anymore.

If a genie appeared to me and granted me one wish, I
wouldn't waste it on sports cars, grand houses, or a perfect body. I would ask
for five more minutes added to everything I do so I could complete some of my
multi-tasks... and an uninterrupted five minute nap after supper so I could
catch my breath and start the second half of my day.

I am Funny Like That

Helen C. Escott retired from the world renowned Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP) in 2014 as the Senior Communications Strategist for Newfoundland and Labrador. Before joining the RCMP she worked in the media for 13 years (OZ FM/ VOCM/ CJYQ) in various positions including reporter, on-air personality, marketing and promotions.

In Retirement, Escott writes a blog called “I am Funny Like That” and has over 123,000 readers worldwide. Now this hysterical blog has come to life a witty book! It ranked on Amazon’s bestsellers list as #6 in Kindle Store and #20 in Books.

Escott has a unique perspective on life and a funny way of looking at it. From wearing granny panties to Brazilians to capturing the essence of a moment in a person’s life. Escott will make you laugh out loud and feel better about yourself. She is the best friend you have always wanted and the life of the party. You will be glad you invited her into your life.

If you have thrown your back out taking off Spanx, planned your husband's murder in your head or screamed through a Brazilian, this book is for you.

If you need a good laugh, or need to smile, this book is better than Prozac it will make you laugh out loud for days after reading it. 123,000 blog readers can't be wrong! Join in the laughter.